


Anger in Passion

by PrincessofHarte



Series: Please ignore my emotional issues. [1]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: (Except for your feels), (Sorry about that.), If it does happen to be developed further, In this I was angry, Not the kind you're thinking of, Passion, This came from my problems with my family, This is most likely not going to be developed further, Trigger Warning: Emotional Abuse, Trigger Warning: Familial Issues, Trigger Warning: depression, and I have found that writing is really the only way I can calm myself without harming someone., and in this I was depressed, then that means that I have had an emotional breakdown., trigger warning: blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-25 05:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6182554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessofHarte/pseuds/PrincessofHarte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An American in France has familial issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Passion

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that I wrote this in a moment where I was emotionally unstable. When my mother yells at me or my brother decides to be on his period (he gets a period every week and we don't understand it, just that he gets pissed with me all the time), I do not cope well. I have found that this is the most healthy way I can remove myself from my feelings.

A girl sits alone at a desk in a hotel room. Before her is a dinner, steaming but untouched. Around her, clothes are strewn about, littering the floor. One of the dual beds is unmade, pillows limp. A small lamp lights the area, glowing orange against the cream walls and closed curtains. There is a silence in the room, broken only by the soft hitch of her breathing, labored as she tries to hold in fresh tears.

She is an American. Her whole life, she has been forced to hide her less than ladylike emotions, her tears, her anger, her “abnormal” passions. Out of fear, her mother emotionally abused her as a child, punishing her for any minute mistake in any subject. As the oldest child, she is and was supposed to be the most mature, the most capable, the most moldable. However, her passions and her fire and her misunderstandings from ignorance and forcibly being kept in the dark led to repercussions of mental distress. As a child, she was expected to be an adult. As a child, she was never told how adults should act, or why adults did certain things. As a child, her curiosity was squashed, breaking her little by little. As a teenager, she was expected to know her entire life to the moment where she would die. As a teenager, she panicked, resulting in a trip to a therapist. As a teenager, she fell farther from her mother’s graces in favor of her younger brother. Legally, she is an adult. Physically, she is an adult. But at only the age of 19, she certainly does not feel anywhere near as an adult should. Her life is falling to pieces, her voice squashed. From years of speaking then being cut off, spoken over, or ignored, she bottles herself up, damming the walls around her loves in fear.

During the winter of her first year of college, her mother decided to plan a trip out of the country for the three of them, herself, her son, and her daughter. During the summer of her second year of college, the girl returned home, dreaming of the trip, hoping that they could reconcile, work through their dysfunctional, nearly estranged relationship. Two days after arriving in Paris, France, the mother and her son stormed out of the room. The mother refused to listen to the girl, refused to even give her the time of night, preferring the sound of her son’s voice over her daughter’s.

Now, she sits at the lone desk in the room in a hotel in a country she doesn’t know with a language she doesn’t speak, the mess of the night around her, a dinner she ordered with a quavering voice below her chin. Breathing raggedly, she clasps her hands together at her lips, mouth moving as words are whispered out. Her mantra becomes, “ _God, please help me. God, please help me._ ” Tears slip through her clenched eyes, dripping off the edges of her eyelashes onto the plastic lenses of her glasses, staining them as they dry. She shakes from the vigor she places in the prayer, asking only for solace. God works in mysterious ways. Death is life and life is death. The same goes for what can be considered good, and what humans consider evil.

* * *

 

Across Paris, a window opens. A man clad in metallic purple gazes over the city of love perusing the emotions of its people. As an empath, Hawk Moth knows how and why a person feels an emotion. Most of the time, he catches tidbits and snippets of the ever-changing human spectrum that encompasses the mind. Uncommonly, he finds spikes in the type of negative emotions, of fear, of anger, of sadness, of hate, of isolation. Rarely does he find these spikes outside of Europe, let alone France. When he closes his eyes and gazes out the window with his mind, he flinches at an unexpected presence. The most powerful spike Hawk Moth has ever felt never came from Europe. It never came from the Old World, or anywhere in the East for that matter. No, the most powerful spikes in the world that he has felt have come from the New World, from America. Tonight is a gift. On his doorstep is a bundle of raw energy he has felt on and off as the years rolled on, becoming more powerful the longer it goes. Hawk Moth cackles as he holds out his hand, a white butterfly landing in his palm.

“Oh, my sweet little akuma, there is a fire that has been smothered. Ignite the flames to make her _burn_!” Hawk Moth holds his arms out wide, cackling all the while. “ _Their Miraculouses will be mine!_ ” 

* * *

 

The girl lies face down on the unmade bed, the covers pulled over her head and over the pillow resting on her ear. The dinner remains untouched, now cold, as the girl holds her knees, curled into a ball. In her right hand is her glasses, resting them on the nightstand next to her. Her hand is freezing in the air conditioning, but she doesn’t remove it, opting to let the heat escape into the air. It lets her know she’s alive. It lets her know she’s awake. It lets her know that the pain still exists and she simmers, feeling unloved, unwanted, and abandoned, positively unable to return home. Besides, if she ever did make it back to the United States on her own, there would be no home for her to turn to.

She closes her eyes, unable to make out anything but massive shapes in the dark blur and fuzz. With the pillow over her ears, she is deaf, listening to the thumping of her own heartbeat and the singing of her ears ringing to pick up sound. Trying to ignore the world and escape into herself, she doesn’t notice the purple butterfly enter her room through the air vent. She doesn’t notice the creature land itself on the silver ring on her thumb, a gift from her aunt three years ago, given under the semblance of happiness. She doesn’t notice the creature melt into the ring, trapping itself in the small garnet stone. However, she does notice the second mind meeting her own. She clenches her teeth and grips the glasses in her hand tighter. In a disarray, she tosses the pillow off her head and kicks off the sheets, sitting up. Around her face glows a purple outline.

 _“Passion_ ,” the voice says, “ _We finally get to meet._ ”

“Who are you?” she growls in return, recognizing the English among the heavily French accent.

“ _I’m Hawk Moth, the man who can make your flame grow. You’ve been quelched for far too long. It doesn’t seem fair that everyone else in the world can speak and enjoy themselves except for you._ ”

“That’s life, Hawk Moth.”

The man makes a tsking noise, clarifying, “ _Life is not lived under the control of others. Surely, you feel the same?_ ”

“What’s your point?” The girl grows visibly more agitated, fidgeting with the other of her two rings on her right hand.

“ _What if I could give you your freedom, the freedom that every young lady deserves, the freedom to speak and be_ passionate _?_ ”

This girl, this American, though depressed and angry, knows that no one gift is given so easily. “What’s the catch?”

“ _I’ll give you the power to be free, so long as you get back two pieces of jewelry that have been stolen from me._ ”

“Is that so?”

“ _Oui. Get me Ladybug’s and Chat Noir’s Miraculouses and you’ll never be confined again._ ”

“Alright then, Hawk Moth. Prove to me you can set me free, then I’ll get your jewels.”

“ _Of course._ ” The girl raises the glasses to her eyes, the darkness accumulating in her hand moving through her face and across her body. Where the ginger girl once stood remains red as Passion rises.


	2. Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look! My mother yelled at me and nearly destroyed my computer. Thanks, Mom! You're the best. -_-

Passion stares down on the city, mostly dark in the cloudy night. Hiding among the rooftops, her surroundings are illuminated by the glow she gives off, her hair aflame.

“ _What are you waiting for, Passion?_ ” Hawk Moth asks.

“Unlike what television depicts us as,” she responds, “I am an American who thinks her plans out first. I’ve seen what your previous villains have done. They were yours, correct?”

She gives him a moment of silence before continuing, “Ladybug and Chat Noir rely on each other. Together they’re too strong.”

“ _And what will you do about that?_ ”

“I know my strengths. Just let me stew.” The pink glow fades from her face as she moves into a sitting position, perpendicular with the roof. Closing her eyes, she lets the venom in her peruse through her memories, picking up on a nasty moment in her senior year of high school. She was an overwhelmed student, stressing out over picking colleges that didn’t need to be picked for several more months, unable to focus from the pain radiating through her lower abdomen, her body betraying her over the fact she decided not to get pregnant that month, or any subsequent months before and after that moment. For two days, she stayed home in pain, unable to go to school. Her mother made no arrangements for her, calling her a child, immature. When _she_ was her age, _she_ went to school on her period. When she was a kid, it was also legal to bring Tylenol into school and take it, but that argument is no longer valid.

_“You’re supposed to be an adult! When you’re an adult, your work won’t give a damn about whether you’re on your period or not!”_

_“When I’m an adult, I’ll be allowed to bring Tylenol with me!”_ she retorted. Her mother’s argument was not valid. Her mother’s period pain was never as bad as her own, even before she had kids. It wasn’t the girl’s fault that she could barely stand when the blood decided to flow. She just wanted to bury herself beneath her warm sheets and sleep off the headache that always came with the blood loss. She never wanted to move. That morning, she woke up in tears, having to fight with warbled words, wishing to stay home or be dead, whichever was the easier option. It was only when she was forced into her room and yelled at over exams that she could explain nothing was due for her on that day, that nothing needed to be done at all and that she could give up this day of school. All the while, she curled up around her legs, clenching her stomach to avert the pain before passing out.

Hours later, she spent the day working on homework, a massive load. She ignored the computer and its distractions, ignored breakfast even, opting to work on her work. It was always work that would never be seen by her mother. It was always work that was considered procrastination. So what if she couldn’t complete all of it in one day? Did that mean anything? Apparently, it meant everything, as the mother believed her daughter to be a waste of time.

 _“Why didn’t you do any work?”_ she screamed, rounding on the girl at the computer desk. She makes a grab for the computer, flipping the lid closed.

The girl clutches it in her arms, the day’s work unsaved. Never mind the open book before her. Never mind the countless papers with words written on them, questions answered. Just because the computer was open, no work was ever done.

“ _Mom, I have been!”_

_“You’ve been procrastinating all day!”_

_“I’ve been doing history homework all day! Please let go!”_

The mother yanks on the computer, wanting to smash it to the ground but unable to take it fully.

_“You should’ve been calling colleges! This should’ve been done a long time ago.”_

The mother never felt the fear the daughter gave off. The mother never felt the anxiety the daughter released whenever something college-related arose. The mother never listened to the daughter’s pleas to help her. The mother never acknowledged that she sheltered her child to the point where her child wanted to break free, but knew that the moment she did, she would die from her ignorance.

_“I can’t!”_

_“Lies! You spoke to your grandmother just fine!”_

_“My grandmother won’t judge me whenever I stumble on my words! My grandmother—”_

_“If you love your grandmother so much, why don’t you live with her?!”_

_“You know why!”_

This was the strategy the mother loved to employ, make the daughter feel awful about herself, interrupt her words, claim her protests as lies, ignore any response the daughter tried to give, and put her daughter in an impossible situation to the point where the daughter was forced to stay under the mother’s thumb. The daughter longed to run away, but she was smart enough to know that there was nowhere for her to go; she couldn’t go to her grandmother, not when the man who lived there terrified her.

“ _Please!”_ she pleaded. “ _Let me do my homework. I’m just trying to do my homework. I’m almost done.”_

The mother let go of the computer in disgust, nearly backhanding the son who tried to diffuse the situation. Giving the daughter a glare, she returned to the couch, watching the lives of vapid celebrities on television. In response, the daughter silently cried, picking up a pencil and restoring the computer to its original state, vainly trying to ignore the pain in her gut as she barreled on.

* * *

 

“Hawk Moth,” Passion calls into the night, holding out her hand. A blue flame appears, matching the emotions present in her face. “Let the game begin.” Holding out the thumb of her left hand, she aims, chucking the fire onto an unsuspecting house, disguising it as an electrical fire. She cackles and floats away, the flames growing brighter and the sirens in the distance growing louder.


	3. Purple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Purple flame helps overcome pain. Thanks for the bruises, Mom!

Another memory, this one more recent and jarred due to a collision with a rooftop and her hip. She recalls lying on her bed on a Sunday, sleeping on her side in the warmth of the room, the sunlight streaming through her window. Why is she sleeping instead of doing homework? Well, her mother insisted on taking the laptop away from her, then returning it half-working. She fell asleep waiting for it to turn on. She would have remained sleeping too, unperturbed, if not for a sharp smack resonating through her hip bones. She screamed in pain, clutching her left pelvis as the thin skin around the bone began to purple. She knew before trying to stretch it out that she wouldn’t be able to extend it all the way, nor be able to put weight on it fully.

Her mother yelled at her to wake up, calling her a baby, that she didn’t hit her daughter, that she smacked her but, that hitting and smacking are two different things, that she didn’t hurt her daughter, that she was allowed to decide whether or not she inflicted harm upon another person. Her mother turned on an accursed fan, one that the daughter despised because of the unnaturally loud noise that it made. She also closed the windows, the only natural light source in the room, stating that it was far too hot for her liking. It didn’t matter what her liking was; this wasn’t her room. She wasn’t a girl who easily grew cold and much rathered the warmth provided by the sun. The warmth of her room, the farthest one in the house, wouldn’t affect the rest of the house at all, especially not with the door closed.

Passion stands against the offending rooftop, recalling the horrid affair.

It was twice that week that her mother came into her room, causing her emotional distress and demanding that she stop being so emotionally distressed. Both times, Passion said that it was the mother causing the distress, and that she would calm down once the mother leaves. Both times, the mother did not leave, choosing to step fully into the bedroom and close the door behind her, leaning on it with her heavy frame.

“Get out!” Passion shouted, clutching her hip. “Get out! You’ve ruined everything.” Indeed, it was an International Baccalaureate Diploma Programme Internal Assessment, due in a matter of hours, that was ruined. The mother couldn’t sympathize with the daughter, believing that the IA was nothing, when in reality, it was nothing to scoff at. The mother believed that she had control of her daughter. The mother believed that because she was buying plants that looked similar to her daughter’s favorite color and because they had the root of Draco in their Latin names that she had won her daughter over, that these plants would be the ones to control the girl. Throughout the day, the daughter retreated to her room, working on homework, only to be called out for some technological disadvantage or another. Really, she had to get this IA done…

Speed time forward an hour after the mother returned home with another fuchsia Dragon plant. The mother planned on buying a bench and a water fountain for the front of the house, ignoring the internal issues of the walls and the peeling laminate flooring. There was a specific kind of water fountain that the mother wanted to show the neighbors, the one that would grace the porch in a year. The daughter, knowing that they wouldn’t enter the house, knew that it would be pointless to take the laptop, the device she had been using for the past three days, out of the house. Instead, she took her tablet to her mother, hoping that it would sate her needs. It did not.

The mother complained how she couldn’t see when the brightness was at its highest setting and she was wearing sunglasses in the shade. She complained how she couldn’t type anything because she kept hitting random buttons. She complained that the connection was slow, forgetting that she was outside the concrete house where the wifi was trapped inside. The mother only complained.

The daughter left, knowing the fate of the tablet would be in the mother’s hands, but that she had more important things to work on, such as the Drama IA.

Not even five minutes after returning to her room, her mother barged in, taking control of the laptop before the daughter could even save her progress. She turned it towards her, ignoring how the computer’s fan groaned in protest. She opened a new tab, ignoring the daughter’s protests, disconnecting the laptop from its charger and the daughter’s phone from the computer, unceremoniously dropping the tablet on her bed. The mother laughed contentedly as she brought the tablet outside to the sandy, gritty area formerly known as their front porch.

Passion slides down the chimney, bringing herself together in this moment. The moments where her mother invades her room, humiliates her, and calls her nothing are the worst, and she can feel the tears well as she remembers. Vaguely, she can tell that Hawk Moth can sense her emotional flux, but she’ll explain what the purple flames mean. Blue means sadness. Purple does not.

The brother returned the computer. How thoughtful of the boy who told her “to go to hell” and that he “hates her.” It’s all really just sibling love, the outright hate he has for her, correct? Upon the laptop’s return, it didn’t turn on. The blue light flickered, trying to pull itself out of whatever mode the mother put it in (not once in the almost five years of having the “family” laptop did the mother ever try to learn how to use it properly). And so, the daughter waited for it to turn on, accidentally falling asleep.

Purple happened. The daughter yelled. The mother yelled back. “Get out!” “Calm down.” “Get out of my room!” “No.” “This is all your fault.” “What did I do?” “You ruined everything! Get out!”

On and on it went, back and forth for over an hour, the daughter yelling at the mother to leave her room. The mother decided to come closer, gauging to see just how far the daughter will go, by moving the daughter’s items and sitting on her bed, jiggling around to make her daughter clutch her leg in pain.

“Get out!”

“Not until you calm down.”

“I won’t calm down until you leave! Get out!”

“This is my house.”

“This is my room. This is my safe haven. Get out!”

The daughter screamed her words at her mother, knowing the mother would never listen no matter how loud the daughter tried to be. It didn’t deter her, she continuing to scream. The mother knew exactly which words and phrases would set the daughter off, she getting off the bed and standing by the dresser. Annoyed, the daughter couldn’t take it anymore and threw the wireless mouse connected to her computer. She wasn’t aiming properly; easily, she could’ve thrown it at the mother’s head, but then where would she be? In a mental institution or in jail for armed battery and mental instability. The mouse flew past the mother’s leg, nearly grazing it as it hit a purse, breaking a beloved pin off of it. The pin and the mouse clattered to the floor.

The daughter made her way towards the door, intending to shove the mother out of it. It didn’t succeed as the mother grabbed the edge of the door and swung it closed. In the background, the brother spouted “encouraging” words to the mother, encouraging her to not leave her daughter in peace. The women grappled with the door, the daughter trying to open it and constantly getting her hand stuck under her mother’s girth, the mother pressing her weight into the door and effectively crushing her daughter’s hand several times. The mother pushed the daughter away several times, twice knocking her into her bed where she almost fell over and injured herself. They shouted, the girl alternating between shouting at devil spawn and demon, trying to be free in her room.

Somehow, for some reason, the mother moved away from the door, giving the daughter the opportunity to hold it open for her. With each line the mother spoke, the daughter only retorted with “Get out!” The mother tried to make the daughter see things her way, reminding the daughter that she was nothing, that she would never be anything, that she would never make it anywhere, let alone college. The daughter replied that that is mostly the mother’s fault for not teaching her and for keeping her confined in her younger years. The mother responded that mental illness didn’t exist, that she was never at fault for what the daughter did, even going so far as to admit that she never raised the girl even though she was the only parent present, that she had no responsibility for what the daughter did.

Passion growls at the memory, recalling that this time, she didn’t throw the therapy issue back in her mother’s face.

Somehow, the brother convinced the mother to be “the bigger person” and leave the daughter’s room. How can the one doing the antagonizing and invading suddenly be called “the bigger person” by being the one who leaves? That is the definition of an unchecked bully. The daughter locked the door as soon as the mother left, crying to herself as she hobbled over to attempt to complete the monstrosity of her last IA, two weeks of six-hour-long exams and fear of the future looming.

The mother and the brother left, as they originally intended, to go get food, likely leaving her with none. That’s okay. She hadn’t eaten dinner for three days already, and her only meal that day was a hot pocket. Nothing like fasting over stress!

Passion grimaces, choosing to ignore the aftermath of the event. It wasn’t pretty. It was messy. The mother questioned several times why Passion wouldn’t leave if she felt that she was being abused, to which Passion responded that there was nowhere else she could go. Passion stares at her hand as her emotions level.

 _“What are you planning on doing?”_ Hawk Moth asks.

In response, Passion cups her hands together, collecting her trapped feelings and breaking them apart into dozens of small flames. Opening her hands, small purple lights flicker in the night. She answers, “Fireflies.”

She can hear Hawk Moth grunt in approval. Her stunt the other day with the blue fire did nothing to attract Ladybug and Chat Noir. She sends out half of the fireflies, letting them find the people oppressed in abusive relationships find their courage to take down their abusers. The other half, she keeps for the select people she will find later the next day.

“Hawk Moth,” she begins, gazing at the purple dots as they blink into oblivion, “Tell me more about this Ladybug and Chat Noir.”


	4. Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can't blame a sick person who is fundamentally weaker because she has a virus for dropping something. You seriously cannot do that. 
> 
> Sidenote, yellow is a gross color. It may be your favorite, and that's fine, but don't paint a baby's room yellow. They will cry. Besides, you get the wrong kind of yellow and it looks like pee.

“Ladybug has the power of good luck,” Hawk Moth explains. “Chat Noir has the power of bad luck.”

“And his bad luck doesn’t affect her?” Passion asks.

“No, he takes the bad luck from her. The more bad luck he takes, the more powerful her Lucky Charm.”

“Lucky Charm?”

“Her special power. She summons a random item and uses it to defeat my…subordinates.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Chat Noir’s is Cataclysm. It can destroy things.”

“Makes sense.” Passion dips behind another chimney, reaching up and snagging the powerlines, her touch burning them. It’s late in the night, so the sleeping Parisians won’t notice their power go out. Lack of power will mean lack of basic amenities, which will lead to anger. Anger is good for Passion.

“They only have five minutes after they use their powers before they stop being superheroes.”

“Okay, then.”

In an hour, the sun rises, burning yellow. Passion hates the color. Yellow is sickness.

Tears rolled hot down her cheeks, making her already tired eyes droop. She was delirious with fever and dizzy from lack of sleep. The power was sapped from her body, her normal gait slowed and her grip weakened. Each breath burned, air hitting the raw blisters in her throat. Her stomach was hollow.

She came home from college with a virus two days previously and avoided her family since. Then, leaving the doctor’s office with a prescription, she shambled with her mother over to the car. She toed the line between casual conversation and angry shouts, knowing that one wrong word, one unhappy motion, would send her mother off on a tirade.

They reached the car when it happened. A grip too weak, a crack unseen in the plastic. The water bottle slipped from her fingers onto the unforgiving gravel, the lid shattered. Immediately, she began to cry and apologize. It was her fault it broke. It was her fault. She wasn’t thinking about holding anything, a movement her body did unconsciously. She couldn’t do two things at once in the presence of her mother. There was no money to replace it. The girl cried, head pounding, throat aching, mentally not all there.

She knew she was being irrational, that the water bottle was nothing, but it meant everything. The water bottle meant the money her mother put into buying was lost. But it meant the girl was a stupid fool and would never make it anywhere in life. But it meant it would never be fixed, like the girl’s ineptness. But it meant the girl would never be liked in her mother’s eyes.

The girl knew it meant nothing, but it meant _everything_.

Maybe, it’s the stress of finals that led the girl to keep crying after her mother told her to stop. Maybe it’s knowing that relationship, that pattern, that obsession with keeping the status quo in hopes of impossible love in the life of abuse could never come to fruition. Maybe, it’s knowing she would never be good enough.

In pain, she shouted truths at her mother, truths such as the mother only listening to the good parts of her daughter’s life and ignoring the bad, truths such as the mother engaging in emotional abuse and ignoring anxiety and depression that can’t be flipped off like a switch. The mother refuted them, yelling at the daughter to shut up, that because she was younger, she had nothing to complain or worry about. Never mind the fact that she just came from her first semester of very expensive college knowing she wouldn’t have a job and she would be $60,000 in debt by the time she graduated.

It was all she could do to stay alive. She let the mother think she won, that her daughter was her obedient slave, but that’s not how it worked. Each breath jagged, every movement eclipsed with pain, stomach pulling inward for food, the girl rested her head against the door and reminded herself to keep quiet. To win was to survive. Only her hurt passion kept her from succumbing.

Passion growled at the sunrise. Hawk Moth would be getting impatient, this being her third (technically) day as his helper and still not luring out Ladybug or Chat Noir. He doesn’t speak to her, but she can feel his icy glare in the back of her mind. _Patience, Hawk Moth, patience._

Below her, she hears a phone alarm go off, its owner shrieking at the time and the low battery level. The smell of leavened bread breaks through the open door. _This bakery must use fire instead of electricity._

She doesn’t understand what the girl shouts, but she can feel the anxiety and annoyance roll off the girl. Passion watches as a girl with pigtails leaves the bakery, running to the nearby school. At the steps, Passion watches her argue with a blonde girl, the one with the pigtails growing more frustrated at the situation. _Perfect._ Smirking, Passion kisses her fingertips and throws a firefly at the girl. It lands on her neck and leaves a small yellow imprint.

Passion closes her eyes and feels the girl’s fire surge. The argument escalates, the blonde calling in reinforcements with a ginger and a boy in a red hoodie. The other girl brings over a brunette, a large boy with a scar, and a pink-haired girl. The pigtailed girl riles up the other ones and Passion feels their fires. She brings her fingertips to her lips and sends more fireflies their way, each finding their targets and implanting themselves in the children’s skin.

Opening her eyes, Passion breathes deeply. “I need an army, right, Hawk Moth? I need to distract the cat to get the bug. Will civilians work?”

“If you can send the city into chaos, then they won’t be able to stop you,” he says, seeing the fighting begin on the school grounds. These are only six children, but it’s enough to disrupt the entire school. “You will do splendidly.”

“I hope so.” Passion giggles quietly, slipping over the other side of the roof. “Give me two more days and then I’ll be ready.”

“You know they’ll be expecting you by then.” He normally sends out one akuma a day, sometimes two.

“But they won’t know what I have planned.” Passion leaves behind melted shingles as she bounds across the city, searching for shadows to hide in from the news helicopters. She doesn’t crave the attention of anyone anymore. If only she could show them her strengths now.


End file.
